looked for, and a small display of taste in the costumes. Most of the maskers, in their silent glidings to and fro, seemed convened rather for intrigue than mere pastime. Indeed the practice, when not evidently made use of as a source of mirth, or successful in producing that effect, is too intrinsically sinister to please those unaccustomed to it. I can readily imagine a masquerade in France as a very gay, amusing, and perhaps pleasing spectacle; but if this be a specimen of this form of diversion in Italy, I can only say that it possesses, in my view, little comparative attraction. The Chiesa di St. Giovanni is splendidly arrayed in tapestry and brilliantly illuminated. The inspiring solos and choruses, with the deep responses of the assembled multitude, and the grand instrumental harmony, formed a scene more impressive and interesting than the combined pleasures of the Carnival.

Among the by-way mirth observable at this mirthful season, one instance struck me as quite unique. A man wearing a military chapeau, stood upon an inverted basket, at a corner, with an outstretched arm and a fixed eye, immovable as a statue. The joke consisted in his perfect immobility amid the jeers and questionings of an eager group. In the midst of a warm debate, whether the figure was artificial or human, the support was removed from beneath his feet, and the hero of the scene joined in the merriment, the source of which was so essentially the product of Florentine wit. A few days after I saw

a multitude convened to witness a sadder but equally characteristic spectacle. In front of the singular old prison of Florence, three criminals were exposed, having upon their breasts large placards indicating their names, age and crimes. They had been condemned to the galleys for three years, and the bell had assembled a curious crowd to gaze upon their wretchedness, and witness their transportation.

ON a fine afternoon we visited Prato, a manufacturing town ten miles distant, for the purpose of witnessing a religious procession, which occurs there once in three years, and is deemed one of the most imposing in Italy. Having passed two or three hours in roaming about the streets, amid the dense crowds assembled to behold the ceremonial, about dusk we took the station previously obtained for us, being one compartment of the rough and somewhat elevated galleries which lined the way. The houses were illuminated, and the strong light falling upon two tiers of spectators arranged on either side, gave to the scene a remarkable effect. First in the procession (designed in observance of the death of our Saviour) came a large cavalcade, habited as the ancient Roman soldiers, the leaders wearing rich mantles, and dark-plumed helmets; then a considerable body of infantry; then a band of musicians clad in black. After these appeared an immense number of laymen bearing torches, and followed by boys, priests and marshals; and then were borne, successively, all the emblems of our Saviour's sufferings,

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and, inscribed upon banners, his words during the crucifixion; after all, preceded by a large choir of priests, and surrounded by torch-bearers, appeared the image of the dead Jesus, over which was carried a large black canopy; then came the Madonna, more music, another cavalcade of soldiery, and files of citizens closed the procession. As this was the first ceremonial of the kind I had seen, my interest was considerably excited. It certainly was well calculated to induce its destined influence. The combined effect of such a solemn moving pageant, and the gazing multitude, revealed to the sight by the flickering glare of an hundred torches; the profound stillness which reigned, broken only by an occasional murmur, the deep tones of the chanters, or the measured strains of the instruments; the view, under such circumstances, of the symbols of the sufferings of Him who, on that day, centuries past, was borne mournfully and quietly to the sepulchre-all came most touchingly and with an awful and solemn distinctness upon the mind.

Among the curious ceremonies of the holy week, observed in Florence, is that called the Columbina. At mid-day, the figure of a small dove is made, by fire-works, to glide rapidly along a large wire from the main altar of the Cathedral, through the principal entrance to the other side of the street, where it comes in contact with a magazine of squibs lodged in a massive carved block or pillar, thence producing gradual but continued explosions. This pheno

menon, although its effect is unaided by the darkness of night, is eagerly viewed by an immense populace filling the large square and adjacent balconies and windows. What its religious signification is, I cannot precisely determine. The first fire is said to be communicated from a holy flint, i. e. a small fragment of the tomb of Christ; and the contardini attach great importance to the manner in which the dove executes her mission, not indeed a very peaceful one. Should her passage be uninterrupted, and the desired effect be produced, a favourable season for the crops is inferred; if, on the other hand, mismanagement causes a failure, the contrary event is sadly presaged. On this occasion the whole affair went off well. It was regarded with much apparent interest —an interest, indeed, which nothing but the character of the people and the force of popular superstitions can explain.